


Throttle

by kashmir, unamaga



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-15
Updated: 2008-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:24:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashmir/pseuds/kashmir, https://archiveofourown.org/users/unamaga/pseuds/unamaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A small Independence Day AU snipplet adapted from a conversation with Julie, which (like most things involving the two of us) quickly turned porny. Dedicated to our Amberface. <3</p>
    </blockquote>





	Throttle

**Author's Note:**

> A small Independence Day AU snipplet adapted from a conversation with Julie, which (like most things involving the two of us) quickly turned porny. Dedicated to our Amberface. &lt;3

"Lieutenant, if you would try that one more time?"

The loud ricochet of a bullet hitting the shield doesn't come this time, despite half the room ducking as though it had.

"How did you do that?" President Weir asks after a silent moment, wandering closer to the ship despite several people's warnings. Her face is uncharacteristically soft with fascination, eyes big and round.

Doctor Rodney McKay preens.

"I gave it a cold," he says gleefully. Off the look Elizabeth throws him over her shoulder, he adds, "Well, a computer virus to be more accurate, but I don't see what it matters, since it _worked_ and I am brilliant. This could potentially turn the tides in our favor, don't you see? If we can get this into the main ship's code, it'll work something like a kid with the flu leaving its used tissues all over a classroom: instant infection."

"And you're suggesting we do that, how?" Kavanagh sneers.

Rodney clears his throat and tips his chin up and says, "Well, we'll have to, um, fly their ship and dock with it in order to upload the virus into their systems. After it's been delivered, we can set off an explosion to disable it and disorient the smaller ships," very quickly – he knows exactly the kind of reaction he's bound to get.

Unsurprisingly, there's a moment of chaos – people speaking over each other to be heard and shoving closer to Rodney's desk to see the diagrams he's drawn on his white board – only stopped when Weir demands, "How long?"

"The shields would be down only temporarily," Rodney admitted. "Once they recognize the virus, they'll be able to override -"

Major Sheppard interrupts, poking his familiar, fluffy head through the throng of military and scientists surrounding Rodney's desk. Even before he opens his mouth, Rodney wants to slap his hand down over it. "Just how much time are we talking here, McKay? Days? Hours? Minutes?"

"Look, it's minutes, but I can't be sure how long. The main ship might be more advanced than this one."

Sheppard gives him that cool, unimpressed look he's been pulling out all day in response to, you know, aliens and certain death and the impending apocalypse. "So…ten minutes?"

"I don't know!"

"Twenty?" Sheppard pressures.

"Okay, fine, you want a number? Seven minutes. Are you happy?"

"No."

"No?"

"That's not enough time," Sheppard says patiently, as though Rodney's hiding spare in his jacket pocket.

Rodney makes a strangled, indignant noise and doesn't realize the two of them are stepping closer to each other until the toe of his shoe hits Sheppard's boot. "You wanted a number," he reminds.

"I wanted a bigger number!"

"It's what you do with it –"

"Gentlemen," President Weir says pointedly, "can we please focus?"

Guiltily, the two of them straighten up, away from each other; the rest of the room's occupants are palpably awkward, shifting from foot to foot and coughing into their hands. Rodney's face feels a hot.

"With their shields down," Weir continues, "you think we would have a window to strike?"

"Please, you're not buying into any of this nonsense, are you?" The President glares at him, but Kavanagh steams forward, "We don't have the manpower to launch that kind of counterstrike. Not to mention that Doctor McKay's ridiculous plan is dependent on a _space craft_ no one on this base is qualified to operate."

Sheppard's eyebrow goes up, and Rodney knows what he's going to say even before he says it. "Nah," he drawls, "I've got it covered."

-

Rodney keeps it together for an admirably long time. He draws on reserves of patience he didn't know he had when Sheppard backs them into a wall by accident; he breathes his way through lift off. As soon as they break atmosphere, though, Rodney's mouth opens like it's got a mind of its own, and he finds himself babbling.

"I'm going to miss popcorn," he says, "and chocolate, although obviously the two should never be put together – that is just a, a crime against foodstuffs. Oh, _coffee_. Do you think they have coffee in hell? Only I'm reasonably sure I'm not going to heaven – if there is such a place, because I'm not entirely convinced that there is – but if there _is_, I won't be making it in, I'm far too outspoken, and God most likely doesn't enjoy it when people prove him wrong – "

"Breathe, McKay," Sheppard says.

"And then there's all the gay sex. Not that I've been having a lot of it, you understand, because some people just don't seem to appreciate how great of a catch I am – I should have taken Brad up on that blowjob before I left," Rodney decides sadly, with the shadow of the mother ship looming closer. "One last orgasm to go out on; even if it wasn't that good, it would have been something, right? Oh god, I don't want to die."

"Relax," Sheppard tells him, smirk turning up the corners of his mouth and making him look wicked. He's still got his goddamn sunglasses on, the idiot. "When we get back to earth, _I'll_ blow you."

"Oh, very funny, let's bait the geek one last time," Rodney grumbles.

Sheppard gives him an unreadable look. "I'm not baiting you, McKay."

Rodney's hands, previously busy worrying themselves over and over again, go limp with shock. "So you mean you'd –"

"Uh huh," Sheppard says, vowels rounded with amusement. "But first we've gotta kill us some pesky aliens. You up for it?"

"If this is all some strange ploy to motivate me," Rodney says suspiciously, because his luck is never _this good_, "it won't work. I'm on to you."

Sheppard rolls his eyes. "I figure not dying is a better motivator. Always works for me," he drawls as they approach the mother ship.

"So," Rodney says, swallowing hard, "you really. You'd. I mean. Not that I'm not very attractive or - or an amazing catch that anyone would be proud of, but. You." He pauses. "You're still wearing your sunglasses," he manages a little helplessly, like that explains it.

And Sheppard laughs, this god-awful dirty old man laugh that, oh lord, Rodney finds _endearing_, and tugs the aviators down far enough to look at Rodney over the rims. "Because the only thing cooler than blowing up a bunch of aliens is doing it while wearing some awesome shades." He pushes them back up the bridge of his nose and then glances over at Rodney again... and Rodney would swear he's leering.

"Oh, do me a favor and shut up," Rodney snaps, flustered. "Just. Do your reckless maverick thing and we'll all go home. You can do whatever it is you do when you're not killing aliens – I suspect redheads are involved – and I'll go sleep for a week."

Sheppard licks his lips as they head inside the mother ship, which is distracting enough that Rodney doesn't even panic much. "You'll sleep for a week, alright." And before Rodney can ask what that even _means_, they're inside and it's down to business.

-

The virus works perfectly (of course it does, Rodney McKay created it), and after all the fanfare is over and Sam Carter's transparent attempts to win him back have been dealt with, Rodney finds himself standing in the middle of a base hallway, face to face with Major Sheppard again.

"Hi," he says awkwardly.

Sheppard, the arrogant bastard, just grins and wraps a hand around Rodney's bicep, leaning in close. "I do believe I... owe you something, Doctor McKay," he whispers, those damn aviators poking out of a pocket of his flight suit.

Rodney barely manages to stop the resulting shiver before it gets embarrassing. "I, uh. I'm not sure that we ever agreed to...to what that something was?"

Sheppard smiles, eyes wicked. "Oh. I think we did."

"We - we did?" Rodney asks nervously, feeling remarkably like a mouse staring down a snake.

Sheppard nods and slowly, so slowly Rodney hardly notices, and pulls him along into a smaller hallway, away from the celebrations. No one seems to notice. "Mmhm. We did."

"Where -" Rodney looks around, noticing suddenly that they're no longer stationary. "Are you kidnapping me?"

Sheppard rolls his eyes and tugs Rodney into a supply closet. "Jesus, McKay. You ever shut up?" And then, without waiting for an answer, he drops to his knees. "Promised to suck you off, didn't I?"

"Oh my god," Rodney answers intelligently.

Sheppard winks and then licks his lips, deft fingers working to get Rodney's pants undone as quickly as possible. Rodney knows he shouldn't complain - god, how often is he going to get an opportunity like this one? - but something doesn't feel...right, and before he can stop himself, he's blurting, "You haven't kissed me."

Sheppard stops what he's doing (which is – oh, _Christ_ – worming his hand inside Rodney's boxers) to smile and then stretch back to up his full height. "Easily fixed," he murmurs, cupping Rodney's jaw and leaning in.

His mouth is - strangely perfect, for all they've been through. Rodney blames the cigar John had finally finished chewing the end off of half an hour after landing and tries not to fall too deeply into the smoky, wet taste of him. That is, until John moans into the kiss, crowding Rodney back against the wall, their fronts pressed tightly together. He's going a little crazy, grinding into Rodney, mouth hard and desperate and Rodney thinks wildly he might never actually get that blow job - because right now he's dangerously close to coming in his pants

Just the sudden, sincere force of John's want is enough to have him pawing desperately at the round strength of John's shoulders to try and hold himself up; he's never felt anything like it before: so focused and hot and, Jesus, any minute now John's going to catch Rodney's lower lip between his teeth and bite a little too hard, a little too long, and Rodney's going to just –

And then John's pulling back, resting his forehead against Rodney's, damp breath ghosting across their lips. His hands are fisted in Rodney's shirt, knuckles white. Once he's visibly gotten himself back under control, he opens dark, glazed eyes to look at Rodney and sinks to his knees in front of Rodney again.

For a minute, Rodney actually has to wrestle with himself to make sure he doesn't embarrass himself by coming all over John's upturned face. And, Jesus, he should know by now that John can read him better than anyone – even after such a short time together, John's got his cues down like no one else – and that John will take shameless advantage of any ammo Rodney gives him, because instantly John's got his hand around the base of Rodney's cock, and he's guiding the damp, flushed head of Rodney's cock over the stubbled curve of his chin.

"Oh my fucking god," Rodney breathes.

John looks up at him from under his eyelashes, smile wicked as he turns and slowly – so slowly Rodney thinks maybe he's dying after all – takes just the head of his cock inside, tongue dancing along the slit.

The back of Rodney's head hits the wall with a dull thunk, and anyone passing by would be treated to an earful, but he can't bring himself to care; not with John's upper lip curling back over the tip of Rodney's cock, John's hand sliding up the shaft, thumb pressing in just under the ridge and finding that perfect – _yes_, oh –

"Oh, fuck," Rodney whines.

John doesn't smile this time. He looks just as gone as Rodney feels, eyes huge and swallowed up entirely by pupil, mouth bruised and full from kissing; from Rodney's dick. He looks utterly fucking debauched, and the smeared line of precome over his chin and along his jaw up to his cheek only makes it hotter.

Rodney grunts and cups the back of John's head with one trembling hand, the edges of his vision whiting out as his orgasm starts to overwhelm him, pleasure radiating outward from where John is giving him the best goddamn blow job of his entire life.

When he comes back to himself, his palms are flat against the wall at his sides as though trying to keep him upright, and his legs are shaking so badly he's surprised he's even standing. The past few days have been all about adrenaline and insanity and airsickness, and, god, he's going to crash so goddamn hard in a few minutes, he can feel it.

But not before he makes one cocky air force major fucking lose it. Rodney reaches a shaking hand out to grab John and pull him to his feet but lets out a whine when he focuses on what John is doing.

John, who is kneeling at his feet, lips shiny with spit and come, red, swollen, hand fisting his own cock as he gnaws at his own mouth, hips arching into thin air as he pants his way towards what looks like an amazing orgasm. But as enticing as that is (years and _years_ worth of jerk off material right there), Rodney's not passing up this chance to get his hands on John.

He lets his body slip to the floor against the wall how it's wanted to since John kissed him, boneless and loose, and then finds his way onto his knees, maneuvering himself between John's thighs and pushing until John's spread open as far as his pants will let him go. John gets the point, letting go of his cock with an unhappy little groan that makes something in Rodney's stomach twist, and leaning back on his elbows. God, he's a fucking _feast_.

Rodney pauses, can't decide whether he wants to suck John or jerk him off; he just knows he wants to make him come. Either way, he apparently takes too much time deciding because John arches, cock jerking and hitting his own stomach, and grits out, "Fucking _touch_ me already, McKay. Wanna feel you."

"Right, yes," Rodney says quickly, and grabs John's closest thigh with one hand to steady himself as he bends to swallow John's cock down.

It's been a while, but his body remembers all the cues and no one has ever accused his tongue of being lazy.

John _keens_ when Rodney takes him in, hands clumsily clutching at Rodney's shoulders, the collar of his shirt and it doesn't take much; one, two, three bobs of Rodney's mouth over his cock and that's it, John's coming, spurting wet and salty over Rodney's tongue, moaning like he's dying, shuddering hard enough that Rodney worries he'll fall apart.

Rodney gentles him through it, keeps John's cock on his tongue until it slips out, soft and damp. John's skin is still prickling with goose bumps when Rodney rests his forehead on John's hip, but John's hand is growing steadier with each pass of his fingers through Rodney's hair. Rodney could very happily fall asleep right here, despite the cramped quarters and the extremely awkward positioning.

He thinks he might have dozed off, because suddenly John is dressed and fixing Rodney's clothes, tugging him to his feet so he's facing John. John smiles, looking a bit loopy, and nods his head towards the door and the hallway beyond.

"Wanna go find a place to sleep? Get some shut eye and then... wake up, maybe do that again? A few hundred times?"

Rodney figures he must be hallucinating, so he agrees readily enough.

John smiles, presses one last kiss to Rodney's mouth that tastes – god, that tastes like the both of them, and Rodney thinks if he weren't about to pass out from exhaustion his cock might try to give it another go.

"C'mon, McKay. Somewhere out there, there's a bed with our name on it."


End file.
